


nobody gets me (like you do)

by alotofthingsdifferent



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Caretaking, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:10:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3317090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/pseuds/alotofthingsdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of times Brent took care of Jonny, and a couple times Jonny took care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nobody gets me (like you do)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryvanilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/gifts), [LikeAMovieIOnceSaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LikeAMovieIOnceSaw/gifts).



> this thing wouldn't be what it is without cherryvanilla and likeamovieiwoncesaw. huge thanks to them (and to everyone who's read and commented on tumblr. you're all the best!)
> 
> speaking of tumblr, come visit me [there!](http://alotofthingsdifferent.tumblr.com)

For the third time in as many days, Brent catches Jonathan nodding off during dinner. The dark circles under his eyes have gotten worse as the day’s gone on, and Brent watches him from the living room as he pushes his plate away and stands up from the kitchen table, dead on his feet.

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, breathing a heavy sigh as he trudges down the hall to his bedroom. Brent hears the soft click of his door closing, and he knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t stop himself from padding quietly down the hall, pressing his ear to Jonathan’s door.

He can’t make out the words Jonathan’s saying, just mumbled French, Jonathan’s voice strained as he tells someone -- probably his mom -- that he’s “so tired”, and “miss you guys so much, I knew this would be hard but not this hard,” and “yes, maman, I love you too.” 

He waits a solid five minute before he raps his knuckles against the door lightly; it’s entirely possible the the kid fell asleep, and the last thing Brent wants to do is wake him. 

“It’s open,” Jonathan calls out, and Brent opens the door slowly, poking his head inside. 

“Hey, kid. Everything all right?”

Jonathan looks up at him from where he’s curled up on one side of his double bed. His tshirt looks three sizes too big, and Brent actually flushes when he realizes it’s _his_ shirt the kid is wearing. Jonathan must realize it too, because his cheeks go pink and he ducks his head, blinking rapidly. “Sorry, I uh -- I just grabbed it from the laundry, didn’t realize it was yours until I already had it on.”

Brent shrugs and takes another step into the room. “No big deal, man. Just a shirt.” 

Jonathan nods. He’s worrying his lower lip between his teeth. Brent motions towards the empty side of the bed. “Can I --”

Jonathan looks up at him and nods, fiddling with the hem of his -- Brent’s -- shirt. “So, what’s up? You’re looking good out there,” he tells him, hoping to boost the kid’s confidence a bit.

Jonathan just shrugs. “It’s uh. You know. It’s harder than I thought it would be.”

“Well, yeah,” Brent teases. “It’s the NHL, man, not peewees.” He notices Jonathan’s eyes go a little red at that and immediately regrets saying it. He reaches out and claps his hand over the back of Jonathan’s neck, jostling him a little. “Hey, I’m kidding, kid,” he says, and then he notices how much Jonathan’s leaning into him, his head hanging. He swallows, then pulls Jonathan in against his side before he can think better of it. 

Jonathan turns into him immediately, pressing his face into Brent’s shoulder. “I’m so fucking tired,” he mumbles. “And I --” he clears his throat, turns his head up so his nose is brushing Brent’s neck. Brent’s breath catches when he feels Jonathan’s eyelashes flutter against his skin. “I miss my fucking mom. And I swear to God, Seabs, if any of this gets back to Sharpy --”

“Hey,” Brent says, tightening his arm around Jonathan’s shoulders, pulling him bodily closer, if that was even possibly. “Hey. I’m not a dick, man. It stays here, ok?”

He nods, sniffles a bit. Brent cards his fingers through Jonathan’s hair slowly, feeling the kid relaxing against him. “You’re doing fine, Jonny,” he says softly. “You’re doing fucking _great_ , actually, you’re impressing the hell out of everyone, you’re allowed to be exhausted and you’re allowed to miss your family, ok?”

“Yeah. Yeah, ok. Thanks, Brent,” Jonny says. 

They sit like that for awhile, until Brent feels the tension in Jonathan’s shoulders start to release, his breathing soft and even. It would be impossible to move without waking the kid up, so Brent resigns himself to an early bedtime and tugs the covers up and over them both.

He’ll deal with the way Jonny’s breath feels against his neck in the morning. 

\--

It becomes a thing.

The first night, Jonathan sticks close to him as they load the dishwasher after dinner. 

The way he brushes his arm against Brent’s, the way he leans into his shoulder, doesn’t go unnoticed.

Jonathan hovers outside his own doorway after Brent makes his way down the hall to crash for the night. His eyes flick from Brent to the floor and back again before Brent finally takes a small step back, gesturing Jonathan into his room. He doesn’t miss the flush on the back of Jonathan’s neck as he brushes past.

“Are you sure this is --” Jonathan starts, but Brent cuts him off with a wave of his hand. 

“It’s fine, kid. Whatever you need.”

Jonathan’s cheeks go pink. “I don’t. It’s not like --” 

“No judgment here, man. Relax.”

Jonathan bites his lower lip and hesitates just a moment longer before climbing into Brent’s bed. Brent stands near the edge, stripping his shirt off and throwing it into the growing pile in the corner of his room. “You wanna wear my shirt again?” he teases, reaching out to ruffle Jonathan’s hair. The kids shakes his head, grumbling something that sounds like “fuck off, Seabs.” There’s no bite to it, though. Brent’s well aware of the way Jonathan’s leaning into his touch.

He curls against Brent’s side, closes his eyes when Brent’s fingers find their way to his hair. It’s not five minutes before he’s asleep, eyelashes splayed on his cheeks. Brent has to close his own eyes to stop from gazing.

Two months later, the kid’s still spending most nights in Brent’s bed. The only exception is on the road, where Jonathan rooms with Pat. Brent tries not to wonder if it’s Pat’s bed Jonathan’s sharing when they’re staying over at hotels. The idea makes him uneasy; he doesn’t like to think about why that might be.

It all changes one night three months in. It’s an off night, middle of the week, and they’re relaxing at home, Brent nursing a beer while Jonathan sits as his side playing Call of Duty. There’s an explosion on the screen, and Jonathan tosses his controller aside, turning suddenly to face Brent. He’s got one knee tucked up underneath him and a nervous twitch to his mouth.

“I’ve been thinking.”

Brent chuckles as he takes a drink from his bottle. “Don’t hurt yourself there, kid.”

He nudges his knee against Brent’s thigh. “Shut up. I’m serious.”

“Ok, Jonny. You’ve been thinking. What about?”

Jonathan swallows and Brent’s eyes track the bob of his Adam’s apple. “I want to...I mean. Can I. Can I do something for you?”

Brent raises one eyebrow and tilts his head slightly, questioning.

“You’ve, uh. You’ve been so good to me, you know, like, letting me sleep in your bed and uh.” He clears his throat, clearly embarrassed. “Cuddling. With me.” His face is deep red, and Brent feels a familiar fondness wash over him. 

“It’s no big deal, kid,” he says gently. “Just, you know. It’s hard being a rookie, I know that.”

Jonathan shakes his head and Brent notices the way his brows knit together in a slight frown. “I want to do something for you,” he says firmly, as if nothing Brent’s going to say can change his mind. Brent offers his a slight nod, the permission Jonathan is apparently looking for.

When the kid slides to his knees and parts Brent’s thighs with his big hands, Brent nearly swallows his own tongue. “Woah, Jonny, what are you --” He sucks in a breath when Jonathan’s thumbs press into the creases of his thighs. He’s wearing nothing but a t-shirt and loose-fitting shorts, his lounging clothes, and they’re not forgiving of the sudden bulge between his legs.

Jonathan blinks up at him, doe-eyed. His tongue swipes along his lower lip. Brent can’t tear his eyes away.

“Let me,” Jonathan says, quiet, and all Brent can do is nod again, his head falling back as Jonathan works him out of his shorts.

\--

"You little fucker," Brent chirps, fond, when he opens his hotel-room door to find Jonathan--Jonny, now--standing there, all sheepish smiles and pink cheeks. "Why didn't you tell me?" He yanks Jonny by the arm, drags him into the room. 

"Sworn to secrecy, I guess," Jonny replies, shooting Brent a guilty look. "You, uh--you're good with it, right? I know it's. You know, I'm so young and all that." He squeezes the back of his own neck and Brent can't help the clench in his gut. 

"Are you kidding, kid? No one deserves it more than you." He closes the distance between them, pulls Jonny into a tight hug. "You're gonna be great," he mumbles into Jonny's hair, his lips brushing Jonny's temple. 

Jonny's fingers find their way under the hem of Brent's shirt, fingertips skimming over the smooth skin of Brent's belly. "I'm fuckin' scared shitless," he whispers, his grip tight on Brent's hips.

Brent presses a hand to Jonny's lower back, anchoring him in place. He mouths Jonny's neck, the thrum of Jonny's pulse familiar under his tongue.

He knows by now what it takes to calm Jonny's nerves, how to take him from wound tight to relaxed in a matter of minutes. Jonny lets out a breathless sigh and Brent walks him backwards until his knees hit the bed and Jonny sits.

He's half-hard in his pants, has been since they introduced Jonny as captain, as *his* captain, knowing Jonny'd seek him out for this. He cups Jonny's face with one hand, has to swallow a groan at the way Jonny closes his eyes and turns in to the touch. "Tell me what you need, kid," he says roughly, and he has to press the heel of his hand to his own dick when Jonny looks up at him with pupils blown wide.

Brent watches Jonny's throat work as he swallows hard, and he knows that look, knows Jonny's trying to find the right words to ask for what he wants. 

It feels like a check to the boards when Jonny whispers, "Fuck me." 

"Jon," he breathes out, feeling dizzy with the sudden _want_ washing over him. "We've never--"

"I know," Jonny says, rushed, "I know, Seabs, I just. I need...I _need_.” He slips his fingers under Brent's shirt again, lifting the material to expose a sliver of skin. He leans forward, brushes light, teasing kisses along Brent's belly. He looks up at Brent under his lashes, breath ghosting over Brent's skin as he whispers, _”Please_ , Brent.”

Brent never was any good at telling Jonny "no".

\--

After, when Jonny lies tucked under Brent's arm, boneless and spent, Brent leans over him, their eyes locked in an intense gaze that makes Brent's heart hurt just a little. "You know I love you, Jonny. You _know_ that. Yeah?"

Jonny swallows, nods, slides his hand up Brent's arm to the back of his neck. He squeezes, pulls Brent down until their mouths meet and Jonny kisses him like it's the last time.

Brent listens to Jonny's breathing slow until he's asleep, and knows that it is.

\--

 

They’re going to win the Cup this year. Brent can feel it, knows it deep in his bones, but he keeps it to himself, knows the rules about superstitions and jinxes. They’re on a hell of a run, and this is their year.

Jonny’d called them all together for some team bonding and they’re all piled in the suite he requested for the occasion. It’s all jokes and laughs and good-natured competition, but Brent can tell something’s up with Jonny, something simmering just beneath his skin.

It’s been two years since they’ve been anything more than teammates, just a D-man and his Captain, but Brent recognizes that look, knows it like he knows the back of his own hand. It’s in the clench of Jonny’s jaw, the slight twitch in his shoulder that no one but Brent would notice. 

When Jonny snaps at Bur, “You’re a fuckin’ cheater, man, get outta here,” Brent decides to test his theory. He reaches over and slaps Jonny’s controller from his hand; there’s no eye contact, and Brent’s face remains blank. 

“The fuck?” Jonny growls, reaching for the controller and throwing Brent a nasty glare. Brent waits a full five minutes, then does it again.

The flash in Jonny’s eyes is unmistakable and Brent has to look away. Jonny snatches the controller from the floor without a word, staring straight ahead as he jams his fingers into the buttons, trying to beat Kaner’s best time.

He doesn’t.

Brent stands, tosses his controller to Sharpy. “All right boys, this has been fun, but I’m gonna go.” He gets exactly four steps before Jonny is on him, swiping his feet out from underneath him with one leg. He topples to the ground with Jonny on top of him, yelling in his ear. “You wanna go, huh, fatty? You wanna fuckin’ go? You wanna do this?” 

The silence in the room is deafening. Half the guys are staring at them with wide eyes, the other half are averting their attention completely. Brent shoves back, elbows Jonny in the gut. “Cool your fuckin’ jets, Princess,” he growls as he stands up, and when their eyes meet, Brent’s stomach somersaults. He holds Jonny’s gaze for the count of three, then salutes the room and walks out.

Back in his own room, he ditches his shirt, pulls on a pair of sweats, and waits.

It only takes ten minutes for the knock to come.

When he opens the door, Jonny’s standing there, lower lip sucked between his teeth. “You haven’t called me Princess since rookies,” he says, quiet, and Brent can’t help his smirk. 

“Get the hint?” He holds his breath, waiting for Jonny’s next move. When Jonny’s shoulders slump forward, he breathes out and reels Jonny in. The door slams behind them as he gets Jonny in the room, his hands rucking up the back of Jonny’s shirt as he pulls him in close. “C’mon, Cap. What’s goin’ on?”

Jonny’s breath is ragged on Brent’s neck, his beard scratching the bare skin of Brent’s shoulder, and it hits Brent, with an intensity he wasn’t expecting, how much he missed this. Missed Jonny need him. Missed needing Jonny.

It’s not until Jonny’s talking that Brent realizes he’d said all of that outloud. “I’ve always needed you,” Jonny chokes, his grip tight on Brent’s hips. Just didn’t think I could have this -- have _you_ \-- anymore, not when they made me captain.”

Brent gives a slight shake of his head, walks Jonny backwards until they reach the bed. “Always had me, Jon. Just had to ask,” he says, and he can feel the tension draining from Jonny’s body. He works Jonny’s shirt up and over his head, eases him down on to the bed, thighs bracketing Jonny’s hips. He watches his own hands as they palm Jonny’s stomach; Jonny’s bigger now, all broad shoulders and strong planes of muscle. It’s different, but it’s still the same. The way Jonny’s eyes flutter shut when Brent touches him, the way his lips part, these little panting breaths that make Brent’s heart race. It’s everything he’s been missing.

He cups Jonny’s cock through his jeans and Jonny rolls his hips, biting back a groan. “You’re good, Jon,” Brent whispers, leaning down to press feather-light kisses along Jonny’s collarbones. “I’ve got you.” 

He feels Jonny swallow as he pops the button on his jeans, easing his zipper down slowly, allowing Jonny plenty of time to stop him, to shove him off, to run away.

“You’re a great fuckin’ captain, babe,” he continues as he works Jonny’s jeans and boxers down over his hips and wraps a hand around Jonny’s cock. “Doing such a good job, I know it’s hard, Jon, I know, I know you’re tired and it’s a lot, too much sometimes, yeah?” Jonny whimpers, bucks up into Brent’s hand as he twists his wrist, jerking Jonny slowly, mouthing the shell of his ear.

He’s surprised when he feels Jonny’s hands at the waist of his pants, fingertips dipping beneath the fabric. “You--” Jonny breath. “You too. Need to feel you.”

It takes everything he’s got not to go off right then.

He kicks his pants to the floor and gets Jonny onto his side, one arm curled beneath him, holding him close. Jonny buries his face in Brent’s neck and Brent slides a let between Jonny’s thighs, letting him rut against his hip, his hands roaming Brent’s skin.

His free hand traces gentle circles on Jonny’s lower back; Jonny’s breath hitches when Brent’s fingers dip lower, sliding along his crack. 

“Seabs,” he breaths, mouth wet against Brent’s neck. He’s shaking, Brent notices. “*Brent*.”

“Shh,” Brent soothes, kissing Jonny’s forehead, his cheeks, his chin. “Shh, Jonny, I got you.”

It’s Jonny’s hand that brings them both off.

It’s Brent’s promises that lull Jonny to sleep. 

\--

Jonny’s in the box again. 

Jonny’s in the box _again_ , for the third fucking time in five and a half minutes. He’s seething, Brent can see it from where he’s skating across the blue line, spewing insults at the refs, every other word out of his mouth a curse. He’s melting down, and he’s taking the team -- _his_ team -- with him. 

Jonny slams his stick against the boards, and Brent makes a decision.

He skates to the box, stepping in with one foot. Jonny’s hunched over, staring at his own feet, and when Brent leans in, he raises his head just slightly. Brent presses his helmet against Jonny’s, his glove coming to rest on Jonny’s head. “You’re the best player on this fucking team,” he tells him. “We _need_ you, Cap. Deep breaths. Calm the fuck down and get back out there.” He claps Jonny’s helmet three times and skates out, looking back just once to make sure Jonny got the message. 

When his eyes meet Brent’s, there's understanding.

They lose, go down 3-1 in the series, and Jonny still hasn’t shown up at his door. Brent’s tense, as much from the game deficit as from the fact that he’s never seen Jonny lose it like that, completely unravel in front of the team. He looks at the clock and pushes down his worry. He has no idea where Jonny is. 

Since their Cup run in 2010, this thing with Jonny has evolved into an even bigger thing. Nights spent apart are rare, even on the road, and as Jonny’s grown into his role as Captain, their relationship has grown with it. Brent knows every one of Jonny’s tells, knows what he needs and when he needs it. That much hasn’t changed. What’s different is that Jonny knows Brent in all the same ways, giving as much as he takes.

It’s been a slow shift, from Brent easing Jonny out of a bad mood to Jonny working the tension from Brent’s body, but now that they’ve gotten to this point, Brent never wants to look back.

He picks up his phone, checks for any message from Jonny, but there’s nothing. He knows Jonny’s shouldering the blame for tonight’s loss, and he’s anxious as he waits for Jonny to walk through the door.

He’s dozing when he feels the bed dip next to him. He knuckles the sleep from him eyes and stares at Jonny’s back, watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes. He’s head is hung, exposing the pale skin at the back of his neck, and Brent reaches up, presses him palm to Jonny’s nape.

“Hey,” he says softly, squeezing Jonny’s neck lightly. When Jonny doesn’t respond, Brent pushes himself to his knees, presses his chest against Jonny’s back as he loops his arms around Jonny’s body. He drags his lips over Jonny’s ear, down to his neck, mouthing the knob at the top of his spine. “You good?” he says against Jonny’s skin.

Jonny shrugs, rolls his shoulders. “Fuckin’ bullshit,” he says, and his voice is still hoarse from the game. “Fuckin’ stupid, I can’t believe I let myself -- “

“Hey,” Brent says firmly, hooking his chin over Jonny’s shoulder. “Knock that shit off. It was one game, Jon. We’ll get ‘em back, this isn’t over.”

He feels the clench of Jonny’s jaw against his own and moves to splay his fingers over Jonny’s stomach. “C’mon, babe,” he says, hushed, as he works Jonny’s shirt up. Jonny raises his arms and lets Brent undress him, a slight shiver shaking his body as Brent slides his boxers down his legs. 

Brent leans in and kisses him, tender and slow, coaxing the tension out of him. “On your stomach,” he says, and Jonny goes easily. Brent watches as Jonny crawls to the middle of the bed, the muscles in his back rippling as he stretches out, and he swallows, resisting the urge to fuck Jonny into the mattress right then and there.

Instead, he settles in between Jonny’s legs, sliding his palms up the backs of his strong thighs, pausing to squeeze his ass. He’s gratified when Jonny groans and gives a slight roll of his hips. 

“Hands on the headboard,” he instructs, and Jonny doesn’t hesitate. Brent leans in and presses a light kiss to Jonny’s right asscheek, then another to his left, before whispering, “I’ll be right back” and disappearing into the bathroom. 

He comes back with a small bottle of oil, one he’d stashed in his bag in case the need arose. He can’t help but stand back and stare at Jonny, the dip of his back, the rise of his ass, smooth and fucking _perfect_ , as he lays there waiting for him, trusting Brent to give him exactly what he needs. 

He drizzles the oil over Jonny’s shoulders, watches as it trickles down to pool at the small of Jonny’s back before he drags his fingers through it, applying light pressure to his spine. He works his hands up to Jonny’s shoulder blades, digging his fingers into the flesh of his neck. “You gotta get your head back in the game, babe,” he starts in a gentle tone, and Jonny lets out a shuddering breath. “You’re so fucking good, such a good leader, everything we need,” he continues, working his hands over the planes of Jonny’s back. “You gotta remember what kind of player you are, yeah? You’re Jonathan fucking Toews. You got this."

Jonny groans when Brent's hands hit a particularly sore spot and Brent gentles his touch, draws feather-light lines up and down Jonny's back. Jonny's squirming beneath him, his breathing quick and shallow as his grip on the headboard tightens.

"Gonna take care of you," he breathes against Jonny's ear. "Stop squirming."

Jonny does, immediately, and Brent stands up, giving him space to move. 

"Up on your knees, Jon," he instructs, and he hears the sharp intake of Jonny's breath as he does what he's told. Brent's own breath catches in his throat at the sight of Jonny like this. He takes in the smooth expanse of Jonny's back, the way the muscles in his thighs clench and unclench as he tries to stay still, his beautiful ass on full display.

"God, Jonny," he sighs leans in, hands on the backs of Jonny's legs as he spreads them a bit further. "So fucking beautiful." He says the words against Jonny's skin as he mouths his way along Jonny's ass, tongue flicking out to lick between his cheeks. Jonny shudders, arching his back, and Brent steadies him with a hand, rubs his beard against Jonny's thigh. 

He spreads Jonny's cheeks with both hands and revels in the way he gasps as Brent works his tongue inside, hot and wet and everything Jonny needs. 

"Fuck, yes," he pants. "Fuck, _fuck_ , Brent," and Brent can feel the bed shake as Jonny pulls at the headboard. 

 

His dick is hard in his pants, pressing insistently against the fabric, and he thinks briefly about pulling it out and fucking Jonny breathless, but this isn't about him, not tonight. This is about pulling Jonny from his dark headspace, about reminding him of who he is, of what he can do.

He knows he can get Jonny off just like this, with just his tongue, but tonight he wants to take Jonny apart at the seams, watch him collapse under the weight of it all and come out clear-headed on the other side.

Jonny whines when he pulls back, pushing his ass into the air. "Brent," he begs. "Don't stop. _Please._ "

"I got you," Brent says, sliding his fingers along the oil on Jonny's back, slicking them up. Jonny buries his face in a pillow at the first press of Brent's fingers against his hole, his chest rumbling with a low groan. Brent eases his fingers inside, curls them slightly just to watch Jonny's legs shake.

He scissors Jonny open and leans in, presses his tongue in next to his fingers, and Jonny's sobbing with it, his entire body trembling as Brent fucks him with his fingers, his tongue. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, wet and shiny at the tip, and his balls are drawn up tight. Brent adds another finger and sucks gently at Jonny's balls, and that's all it takes to bring Jonny over the edge.

He collapses to the bed, gasping for breath, his hands still gripping the headboard. 

Brent doesn't hesitate in pulling his own dick out of pants, and it only takes three quick jerks before he's coming in ribbons all over Jonny's ass, Jonny's name on his lips. 

Once he's cleaned Jonny up, he curls against his side, cupping his face as he draws him in for a kiss.

"You good?"

Jonny smiles, lazy and sated, and nods, leaning in for another slow kiss. "Thank you," he whispers, and "I love you," before he feels asleep.

Jonny scores in game five, and they're right back in it. On the ice, Brent skates up to him, claps him on the helmet. He leans in close. "Maybe I should rim you within an inch of your life before every game, eh Cap?"

He's far too pleased with the way Jonny ducks his head, the flush that paints his cheeks. With the knowledge that Jonny is _his_.

He can't imagine it any other way. 

\--

 

“What are you thinking about?” Brent asks Jonny, who’s sprawled out next to him on the bed, his nose buried in a book. When Jonny doesn’t answer, Brent kicks at his ankle. “Jonny.”

“Hmm?” Jonny rolls his shoulders and looks at Brent lazily. 

“What. Are you thinking about.”

“Uh,” Jonny replies. “Nothing? What are _you_ thinking about?”

Brent doesn’t answer. Instead, he stares at Jonny, his jaw set and one hand clenched in the sheets. He’s thinking about Jonny, about his lack of production in the playoffs, about how all anyone’s talking about is everything Jonny’s doing _right_. He’s thinking that Jonny needs to be brought back to basics, reminded that his role on this team isn’t just “Captain”. 

“Are you ok?” Jonny asks, tiling his head at Brent. “You’re kinda --” he waves a hand in front of Brent’s face. “Crazy-eyed right now.”

“Jonny,” Brent says firmly, his hand coming up to grip Jonny’s jaw. “What. Are. You. Thinking about.”

Jonny blinks once, then blinks again, his face clouding. “Fuck you,” he says softly. “Don’t.”

Brent softens a bit at that, at the way Jonny’s vulnerability comes through when he feels like he’s disappointing someone -- disappointing _him_.

“It’s not like I'm not trying,” Jonny snaps. “I’m throwing everything I can at the net, you know that.”

“So that’s it then,” Brent says. “Poor Jonny, the puck’s not going in the net, oh well, we’ll try again next year?”

Jonny’s eyes darken as he narrows them at Brent. “What the fuck is your problem?”

Brent heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his own neck. “You’re a fucking great leader, Jon. We wouldn’t be where we are without you, you hold our shit together. “ Jonny’s watching him, lower lip sucked between his teeth. “But you gotta rid of that tunnel vision, man. Yeah, your leadership is important. Yeah, you’re the best guy we’ve got. But you gotta stop thinking about everything you’re doing _right_ , and start thinking about --”

Jonny cuts him off, his tone sharp. “Scoring goals.”

Brent’s mouth twitches; he tries hard not to smile. “Yeah. Yeah, you got it, babe.”

Jonny nods, reaches up to fist the collar of Brent’s shirt in his hand. “Yeah,” he says, pulling him in to kiss him hard. “I got it.”  
Brent tries not to pat himself on the back too hard when Jonny scores in game four. 

“Jonny’s got his groove back!” he laughs, clapping Jonny on the helmet as he skates past the bench, a grin splitting his face. He turns over his shoulder, points a gloved finger at Brent, and winks. 

Brent scores the game-winner in overtime, and after that, there’s no looking back. 

He can’t take his eyes off Jonny as he lifts the cup over his head, his smile bigger than Brent has ever seen it. A wave of memories floods over him. He closes his eyes for a brief moment and can see Jonny sitting at his kitchen table in sweat pants and bare feet, hunched over a bowl of cereal. The pink on Jonny’s cheeks after Brent kissed him for the first time. Jonny holding the cup over his head after their win in 2010, beaming at Brent from center ice. Lying in bed months later, Jonny’s hand in Brent’s hair as they said “I love you” for the first time and meant it in a way that said forever. 

He savors the weight of Jonny behind him, the press of Jonny’s hand against his head as they pile in for a team photo. Jonny’s mouth is hot against his ear, “Yeah, Seabsie boy! Seabsie boyyyy!”

He laughs, loud and bright, looks over his shoulder at Jonny, who’s smiling right back at him. “We fuckin’ did it,” Brent says. 

“Damn right we did,” Jonny replies, giving Brent’s neck a quick squeeze. Brent would like nothing more than to grab Jonny by the front of his jersey and haul him in for a kiss. His eyes drop to Jonny’s mouth, then up again, and Jonny grins, shoving at Brent’s shoulder. “Save it for later, big boy.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Jonny says, draping an arm around Brent’s shoulders. “You got me, babe. I’m all yours.”

And Brent really likes the sound of that. 

\--

They’ve just come off the ice from practice when Brent gets the news.

“Hey,” Jonny says, dropping down next to him with a grin on his face. “Guess what?”

Brent looks at him questioningly, momentarily blinded by the brightness of Jonny’s smile. “What?”

“I’m going to the all-star game.”

Brent laughs aloud, nudging Jonny’s shoulder with his own. “Oh, there’s a big shocker. Tell me something I didn’t already know.”

Jonny’s grin gets wider, which doesn’t seem possible. “You’re going with me.”

Brent blinks at Jonny, his heart stopping for a split second. “I’m -- what? Shut up.”

“Fans voted you in, man. Me and you, Kaner, Duncs, and Crow.” Jonny’s beaming at him. Brent feels like he might throw up.

It’s not like he’s not flattered. He is, this is amazing, he’s never been to the all-star game before.

But that’s just it. He’s never been to the all-star game before, and the fact that the fans voted him in, the fact that it’s mostly just a popularity contest -- it’s got his head doing some weird things.

“Hey,” Jonny says, his voice dropping an octave. “This is awesome, man. Why aren’t you happier about it?”

“What? No, I am -” Jonny arches an eyebrow at him, “I am,” he repeats, “I’m just shocked, is all.”  
Jonny looks at him with such genuine bewilderment that Brent flushes. “Why, babe? You deserve to be there.”

“Yeah?” Brent asks, and he can’t help but return Jonny’s smile.

“Fuck yeah,” Jonny says. “We’re gonna light it up.” He claps Brent on the shoulder and retreats to the showers, leaving Brent to deal his anxiety over the whole situation on his own. 

The night before they’re set to leave for Columbus, they’re lying in bed, Jonny’s head on Brent’s chest as Brents fingers stroke lazily at the back of his neck. Jonny’s nodding off, Brent can tell by the shallow rise and fall of his chest, but he starts talking anyway, knowing that if he doesn’t talk this out, it’s going to eat at him all night.

“Hey,” he says softly, squeezing Jonny’s neck gently. “You awake?”

“Mmhmm,” Jonny replies. “What’s up?”

“Just,” Brent start, then forces a laugh. “Make sure I don’t get picked last, yeah?” He’s going for teasing, but Jonny sees right through it, and he turns his head, chin propped on Brent’s chest. 

“You’re still freaking out, huh?”

Brent’s cheeks color, and he looks away. “What are you talking about?”

“Babe,” Jonny says, pressing a kiss to Brent’s collarbone. “You’ve been freaked out about this whole thing since the announcement came down. Don’t try to play it off like you haven’t. Not with me.”

Brent doesn’t say anything, just rests his head against the headboard and closes his eyes. He feels Jonny’s lips on his neck and tilts his head, enjoying the pressure of Jonny’s mouth on his skin.

“You’re fucking amazing, Seabsie,” Jonny whispers. “On the ice and off. You deserve to be at that game.”

“Yeah,” Brent says, shifts his hips as Jonny starts sucking lightly at the spot just behind his ear. 

“And I’d never pick you last, idiot,” Jonny says fondly, pinching Brent’s thigh.

“Ouch! Fucker!” Brent laughs, swatting at Jonny’s hand. Jonny blinks up at him with those eyes that do Brent in every time.

“Oops. Let me kiss it better.”

Brent’s own eyes fall closed as Jonny’s mouth maps a trail down his body. 

\--

Jonny’s bouncing on Brent’s cock. That’s the best way to describe it, and Brent is loving every fucking minute of it. They’d won the game by five goals, and any anxiety he’d had about the whole thing had melted away the night of the draft when Jonny called his name.  
Jonny had dragged him back to their room after their game, stripping him of his suit as soon as the door closed behind them, and shoved Brent back on to the bed, climbing up his body. “Gonna ride you so hard, baby,” he groaned as he fingered himself, working himself open before seating himself on Brent’s cock.

Brent’s eyes had rolled back in his head, and he’d gripped Jonny’s hips so hard he knew they’d leave a mark.

It had started slow, excruciatingly slow, Jonny rising and falling on his cock with intent. And then Jonny had looked down, grinned at him, and started moving.

Which brings them to now, Brent swatting Jonny’s ass and calling out, “My captain, my captain,” a grin on his face. Jonny laughs, falling forward against Brent’s chest, clenching around him, and Brent moans, thrusting up hard. “Love you, cap,” he breathes against Jonny’s ear, and Jonny slows his motions again, smiling against Brent’s skin. 

“Yeah?” he says, pulling back so he can look down at Brent. He licks his lips, a tiny bead of sweat trickling down his temple. Brent’s heart stutters and he rolls his hips, watching Jonny’s lashes flutter against his cheeks as his eyes fall closed. 

Brent reaches a hand up to cup Jonny’s face, thumbing over his cheekbone. Jonny leans into it, nuzzling Brent’s palm, and Brent has to swallow down a sudden surge of emotion. He’s used to being the one having Jonny’s back, reading all his body language and helping him out of his own headspace. But this weekend, the tables had turned. Jonny’d been by his side as much as possible, even pulling him into his own media photo, one arm draped around Brent’s shoulders, their hips touching. He remembers when Jonny was just a rookie, a scared kid looking for comfort and validation, staring at Brent with hopeful eyes, and it makes his heart swell knowing that he can count on Jonny for all those same things. 

Jonny is his, all his, and yeah, he still takes care of Jonny, of course he does, but it’s so much more than that. He loves this guy, he’s head over heels, he’d do anything for him, he’d do everything for him.

He brings his other hand up to cup Jonny’s face, tugs him down into a bruising kiss that leaves them both breathless. “What was that for?” Jonny asks, his forehead resting against Brent’s. 

“I fucking love you,” Brent says, his hands still caressing Jonny’s face. Jonny laughs, clenching around Brent again, leaving Brent gasping beneath him.

“I fucking love you too, Seabsie.” 

Jonny’s coming all over Brent’s stomach minutes later, and Brent follows, spilling inside Jonny with Jonny’s name on his lips. When they’ve recovered, and Brent’s got Jonny tucked under his arm, dozing against his chest, he remembers that first night in Jonny’s room, Jonny in his shirt with his face pressed into Brent’s neck, and can’t believe how far they’ve come.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
